The Magician's Final Act
by doc100
Summary: Can an old dog learn a new trick?  You decide...


**The Magician's Final Act **by doc

_**AN:**__ This is a self-reflective piece prompted by one of the discussions on the board. The timeframe? Sometime after the end of JAG…you pick… The characters? I think it's obvious, but I guess you could decide. Where? Who knows…I refuse to make the choice least I get myself in trouble._

_They say even an old dog can learn a new trick…well, sometimes. So, let's see if the new red ball is better than the old chewed bone. Hope you enjoy?_

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_Disclaimer: I don't own JAG or any of the characters. I just take them out and play with them on occasion before replacing them safe and sound back on the shelf._

_Please excuse the omissions, misspellings and errors. The mistakes are all mine. Mom had no part in the proofing of this tale. Thanks for reading._

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**The Magician's Final Act**

An Afternoon Weekend

Early Fall

Somewhere

I stroll through a park in the heart of a city, which I do not call home. Home…the very notion subdues my nimble spirit before it can soar. It speaks of security, comfort, warmth…a place to belong. And anymore, I doubt the existence of such a calming abode or sanctuary of retreat. Instead, I hone in on my surroundings, trying to locate that inner sense of peace that seems to elude my soul of late.

It's a beautiful autumn day and the temperature has finally dropped to just this side of cool, a fitting farewell to the extreme heat of the prolonged Indian summer. The trees attired in an artist's palette of vibrant jewel tones, now sport leaves in rich shades of orange, red, yellows and browns. I inhale deeply and thrill to the intense aroma that is fall. That mixed up jumble of damp leaves, crisp air and the burning ash from the season's first fires, all sprinkled and stirred with just a hint of apple cider and pumpkin. The harmony of scents merge to form a fragrant autumn bouquet reminiscent of memories from a carefree youth…romping through leaves, building forts, starting school, Halloween. I always loved the potential of this time of year. It was a chance to begin anew…fresh notebooks, papers and pens. For a brief moment, I was unencumbered by the events of my past; there were no expectations…new classmates, teachers and friends, the potential seemed unbound. I shake my head in melancholy humor at my rhyming flights of fancy, since when do I wax poetic?

I round the next bend along the path, shifting to my left, to avoid a family touring the scenery on bicycles. I notice their rosy red cheeks kissed by the cool autumn sun, childish giggles caught up in the fun. Exhaling a morose sigh rich in self-pity, my solitude threatens to consume me, and my footsteps drag further laden in an emotional quagmire. The weight of obligation hangs heavy from my neck. I've been summoned for an early dinner within the hour. In light of the evening's proposed stodgy affair, I couldn't resist the chance to slip away and enjoy a brief respite of freedom offered by the open expanse of nature, before resigning myself to the stifling oppressions of propriety dictated by tonight's social constraints.

Stopping beside the river's edge, I note the ducks taking flight, skipping along the water's surface like graceful skaters in dance. Deep rippling circles disperse outward in their wake in a bull's-eye effect, and I feel the weight of the oncoming winter target my soul. I close my eyes and imagine the noisy gaggle winging south as a familial pack skirting the fringes of the eastern coastline on course to a promised paradise of warmth and sun. I wonder what it must feel like to belong? To know that your role in a family unit is so integral to their survival and success, that the loss of your presence would diminish the lot? While I'm aware that everyone belongs to a family of sorts, be it personal or humankind, some individuals fit better than others, they're essential, wanted…loved. They are key to the very existence of the pack. While others just…well, they just are. They're merely placeholders, a number to count. I'm afraid I've rarely known the former, preferring to be relegated to that position of last. The 'putting on of errors' so to speak…a life full of 'show and posture' intended to delude, all so the world won't notice the glaring lack of substance hidden beneath the shiny surface of bravado and brash.

As I watch the flock soar out of sight, I long to escape with them away from the grip of winter's chill. I can already feel its icy tendrils close upon me, chilling the length of my spine. That cold empty darkness, devoid of sentiment and emotional ties, that seems to be my constant companion of late…nay, maybe a lifetime. I honestly can't remember the last time I felt I belonged…anywhere. I've become such a consummate operative playing the stage of 'smoke and mirrors,' that I've deluded myself into believing the genuine is counterfeit, and the fictitious is real. Friend or foe, gain or loss, love or hate, right or wrong…they are so easily interchanged or forsaken as seems to fit the need. This life I have chosen, or was it thrust upon, leaves little room for permanence and ideals. For roots or family…or a place to belong.

I glance at my watch, realizing I'm now late for my appointed time. Slowing my step to delay the inevitable cool air of disappointment reflected in her eyes at my tardiness and lack of decorum, I decide to linger upon a park bench hidden in an outcropping of trees. From this vantage point, I can study the activities of the other patrons while concealed from their view, a task for which I am intricately trained. My cell phone vibrates from the pocket depth of my coat, but I ignore the summons in favor of enjoying the peace of a fall afternoon.

Scanning the crowd, I notice kids on skateboards, a pick-up game of skins, vendors hustling fat-laden treats, dogs chasing Frisbees, and families at play. My eyes then settle upon an enchanting sight I haven't been privy to for years, and I'm entranced to follow her every move. She sits alone on an old worn and ragged patchwork quilt, reclining against the thick trunk of a knurled oak tree. A book perched in her lap, she's oblivious to all those around enthralled only with the pages of her tale. Once more I scan the crowd, anticipating another familiar face…looking for him, her omnipresent savior and hulking hero. When my search fails to yield any sign of her lumbering protector, I war with myself over the prudence of intruding on her private retreat. Instead, I continue to stare, resigning myself to exile and wallowing in past defeats.

She's more beautiful then I remembered. The afternoon sun catches the auburn highlights in her hair and I notice that she's let it grow long. The dark tresses now fall below her shoulders in soft cascading curls, and I lament again all that I've lost. Not so much lost, as careless threw away by indifference and neglect. She once asked me why I chose her. Thank goodness, my first off-handed response, 'besides the obvious,' died before it reached my lips. Instead, I told her it was because 'she was tough and didn't need anything,' and in a way that was true. She was always a marine first and a woman second. She was strong and intelligent, a fast-thinker and even quicker on her feet. She could quite literally fight or argue her way out of any perilous situation. Of course, the beauty and charm that knit together the whole of the presentation, only added to the allure. Who wouldn't want her? And in my chosen profession, anything less would be a bothersome distraction, and at worst, a deadly liability. And so I took her affection for granted and exploited her strengths.

I watch as she glances into the distance then settles back to her book. Her facial features looks different now…softer somehow, gentler. She seems to glow with a radiance that never graced her countenance in all the time she spent with me. I blink my eye against the bright afternoon sunlight surmising it must be a trick of the glare, but when I chance another look, the brilliance of her smile outdoes the sun. I close my eyes again and imagine that her smile is directed at me, an entreating invitation to enjoy her company. As I rise from the bench, taking two steps in her direction, a quick movement catches the periphery of my eye.

And then he's there.

I gawk, as her smile grows wider in depth and love. Her eyes unseeing except for him…that infuriating man who for years stood oblivious to her beauty and charm. The tall brave protector who snarled and fought to keep other suitors at bay, while blindly refusing to be swayed by all she was so freely willing to give. And yet, despite all his gaffs and missteps, here he was still intimately entwined in her life. Why was he granted a multitude of second chances, when I was banished with none?

I retrace my steps and duck behind the cover of a tree…hidden in the shadows. Shadows. That's where I've spent most of my life.

Secure behind the safety of camouflage once more, I continue to watch the scene unfold. He drops beside her on the quilt offering an ice cream treat. Even from this distance, I can see the mischievous merriment dance in her eyes before she strikes. She steals a lick of his cone before taking her own. He retaliates with a glare, before swiping hers back. They laugh and tease, and poke and joust. I break my gaze from the jovial sight and dejectedly look away. She never shared this side with me. She was always in complete control and tightly wound. The perfectly ordered marine. I marvel at how little I knew of her. Me, the shrewd observer and judge of mankind.

When I chance yet another peak, I nearly come undone. He twists away and then I see the treasure strapped upon his back. She gently lifts the giggling, squirming tot secured within the tote. I stare intently has she hoists the baby overhead and smiles with motherly love then brings him close to kiss his cheek. The happy trio shares the cones, first with tentative fingertips tested by the babe. At last I hear a piercing squeal, as the little one dives head first into the mound of melting goo. Both parents bubble with laughter at the fearless feat and gleefully cheer him on until both hands and face are smeared in a sticky chocolate mess.

My phone vibrates in my pocket once again, but I can't seem to break my focus from this spell of devoted bliss. Evening plans are unconsciously shelved, as I savor all I've lost. I watch the happy family tumble through leaves and toss them to the wind. The wee tot stumbles in a wide-based gait, characteristic of the newly acquired task, all the while giggling his independence with each new step. Mama hovers nearby offering words of encouragement, while daddy skillfully anticipates each misstep and always breaks the fall. My mouth gaping open, I'm amazed at the wonder of this child. He's the perfect blend of marine and sailor…'devil-may-care' attitude, daring and bold. Long and beautiful, chubby cheeks, soft dark wisps of hair. As he twirls and giggles in the wind, head thrown back, he dances with his daddy's eyes. Clad in denim from head to toe, shirt the colors of the flag, he's the perfect embodiment of all his parents strive to serve. And as the sun begins to set and day turns to dusk, my heart weeps in anguish for all that can never be.

An adjacent noise rouses me from my tortured thoughts, and I notice once again the football game battled near. The boisterous hoodlums run and shout, tackling one another to the ground. I watch in horror as the ball drifts out and bounces near the dancing tot. The pigskin falls just a foot away, but frightens him all the same. She gentle plucks him from the throes of tears, while daddy threatens to wage war. I stare mesmerized as she drops to the quilt and cuddles him close. Such tenderness I've never seen, and am sure I never felt. She whispers, kisses, coos and strokes to calm the tiny one's cries. Then in a display of devotion rivaled only by the master's paintings of old, she lifts her blouse and soothes him at her breast. In all my years of living, I swear I've never seen a more beautiful sight, nor was I ever so thoroughly loved.

After dispensing with the threat, their tall protector returns to their side and settles at her back. His long legs are placed astride of hers, and arms encircle his treasured pair, a show of strength and love. I watch as his hand lovingly cups the wee small head and fingers stroke through delicate wisps of baby fine hair. Safe and secure, the child is content to nurse, wanting for nothing in his world. Even from my distant perch, the love reflected in both his parents' eyes shines through and leaves me breathless with covetous want.

I turn my head unable to look at what could've been mine. My phone insistently summons me refusing to accept my shun. I walk away a metered step and flip open the offending device to answer the relentless calls.

"Yes, I know…I'm sorry…Please extend my apologies…On my way…"

I drag my feet along the path, grinding hapless stones to dust, as I pace back and forth in measured steps. "Tonight? Tickets for the premier…yes, of course…about an hour, I'll need to change…I'll do my best…"

I close the phone with an irritated snap of resignation and thrust it back in my coat. The cold reality of my life intrudes once more. The appointments and meetings, the contacts and social engagements, the political climb to the top. All those smoke and mirrors…the illusion that is my life. This life I to which I was born and bred, then hardened and steeled in expectation and need. There's no time for warmth and love here…no chance to belong. Home is but an illusion, composed of brick walls, slate roofs, leaded glass and doors…the magician's props.

Frustrated, I wander back to the cover of my tree and gaze at what might've been. The trio is huddled under the tree on the soft ragged quilt of old. Their baby sleeps on his daddy's chest, sheltered by a large strong hand. His head, in turn, rests in her lap, graceful fingers dancing with affection through short-cropped hair. She leans forward to kiss the babe's soft head then lingers to nibble his lips. I watch as their fingers drift together and intertwine around their son in a fortress of love and strength. The sun is now beginning to set in the western sky and falls on their conjoined hands revealing identical bands of gold, their symbols of eternal devotion…no beginning and no end.

I realize now as I watch this scene that it was always meant to be. She never once showed me such devotion, caring or love. Not once. I was merely a stand-in foisted upon her by my own selfish spite. Coveting and conniving to own my desire, I betrayed those I would call friends. But even now as I watch, I can't help but dream of all that can never be. Never…

Although…

The ducks circle overhead and warn of winter to come. They chide me for opportunities missed, for real, and right, and love. I once walked away from a chance at bliss and left it all behind. Under the cover of smoke and mirrors, I sought what was not meant to be rather than cherish what was already mine. And if I've learned nothing else from today's stark tale, it's that right is always right…and second chances exist. Smoke blows away, mirrors turn out…fiction can become fact.

The decision now made, my phone vibrates as if on cue, cheering me on my way. I flip open the device and smile for the very first time today. Stodgy social obligations are made to be cancelled…my night is looking sublime.

"Yes? … No, I'm not on my way…I'm afraid I won't be able to attend…I'm sorry…Well, you'll have to extend my apologies…No really, I'll be leaving tonight," her disapproving sigh strums an irritating tune in my ear.

"Yes, I'm certain; I've something far more important to do…yes, you could say it's a matter of life and death...Well, there are many ways to define life…Yes, I'm aware I'm being cryptic," her sighs grow louder and deeper in pitch.

"No, I'm not playing this for drama…well, I guess you might say it's an act of sorts…How do you feel about magic? ... Good, me neither…I'll see you back in D.C."

I start to end the call, but think better of it, "Still there? … Good, one other thing…I love you, Mother. I just thought you should know." I quickly hit the disconnect, and my smile grows wider still. That last bit should keep her wondering about my sanity for days. I slip the phone back in my pocket and start back up the path.

When I draw close to the river, a duck lands at my feet and cocks his head, throwing me a disparaging look. I glare back, but the beast remains unfazed. I flick my hand to shoo him out of my way, before relenting under his stare and reaching for the phone. "Okay, okay…I get it…don't push!"

I page through my phone directory searching for an old number I haven't called in years. As the phone begins to ring, I swallow hard and begin to sweat. When a friendly feminine voice echoes a soft 'hello' into my ear, my breath stalls in my chest. I scarcely find the air to answer back before she disconnects the call.

Finally, I push out a stuttered breath, "Claaay…it's Clay…"

The pregnant pause of mute silence on the other end scares me to my core. I nearly drop the phone in the tall grass at the river's edge and flee. Sensing my discomfort, the insistent fowl pecks at my feet. The sudden attack rouses me from my catatonic plight, "Hey…"

The voice on the other hand finally answers back, and I close my eyes and pray for strength.

It's a funny thing, the coping mechanisms we all chose to perform under the guise of fright. Jumping from tall buildings in a single bound may have worked for Superman, just as flying faster than a speeding bullet to escape a dirty nuke, worked for an old friend. But when you've lived your life as a magician, behind the illusion of smoke and mirrors, the first time you perform without the wizard's cape is a frightening, death-defying feat. So I do the only thing I know how. I weigh the risks and benefits, grab the gold ring, and wave the magic wand. I've decided reality is a much better place to live…and family is about as real as you can get. They say you get to choose your friends…but you're stuck with your family for life. I think I'd like to give that place of belonging a try.

"Catherine, I think I'd like to get to know my son…"

_The End_

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_**AN:**__ This story started out as a short reflective piece in response to a discussion on the HarmyBoard. The post revolved around the question of 'Whether Harm and Webb were ever truly friends?' The discussion went on to debate Webb's friendships, relationships, etc. Now, I have to admit, I'm not a big fan of Webb. The old bumbling 'State Department Spook' was endearing in the beginning. He was more or less the doddering foil to Hero Harm. But after the events of Paraguay, Webb moved from 'irritating sidekick' to 'back-stabbing fiend'. Hence this short fictional piece, which was SUPPOSED to explore Webb's realization of all he lost._

_But as so often happens when your mind takes off on a tangent all its own, the story morphed from its original intent. I was doing a little research for this piece, and went back to watch 'Hail and Farwell, II' to get the correct wording for Webb's discussion with Mac. By the way, you gotta love when she hauls off and smacks him for all his subterfuge and then kicks him to the curb, but I digress! Anyways, when Mac walks away, Webb asks CIA Director Kershaw how you're supposed to succeed (read: stay alive) in the job, but still keep the people you love in your life? Kershaw responds back, "Let me know when you figure it out."_

_I didn't pay much attention to Webb's reaction, when the episode originally aired…I was to busy singing the 'Hallelujah' chorus because Webb was out of the picture, & I stupidly thought TPTB would move the Harm and Mac relationship along. Oh, how wrong I was!!! Anyway, back to Webb's reaction. When I rewatched the scene, Webb really was sincere. I think at that moment, Webb probably did love Mac, but didn't know how to balance all the different aspects of his life. I have to think that whole fiasco of faking his death, losing a significant other & a friend had to affect him in some profound way._

_So, I tried to look at that insightful moment with a magnanimous eye & give Webb the benefit of the doubt…that he learned a valuable lesson. After all, Kershaw was bringing him 'out of the cold,' which gave him plenty of time to get reacquainted with his child. Surely, I'm not the only one who believed Webb was the father of Catherine Gale's kid?_

_So that's it! That's what prompted the writing of this piece. And since we all know that Harm and Mac are happily married and living in matrimonial bliss with at least one little Rabb by now, I thought I'd cut Webb a break and give him another chance at a family. I hope I got his character right. I was looking for the perfect mix of haughty self-absorption and arrogance, tossed with a little circumspect insight, all layered with an Ivy League education and a recent trip to the opera! I hope I came close? (Said with a smile and tongue in cheek.)_

_But if he dares venture near Mac…I'LL BREAK HIS SCRAWNY LITTLE SPOOKY WHITE NECK!_


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